Inkache
by willshakespeare-immortalbard
Summary: Spoilers for Inkdeath. Follows the emotions of Elinor and Darius as they try to keep their love hidden, convinced that the other won't return their feelings. If you notice, the chapter titles are the same as the ones in the book. Please read/review!
1. Nothing But A Dog And A Piece Of Paper

**A/N—I don't own the **_**Inkheart**_** series. All rights belong to Cornelia Funke and Chicken House publishers. All I own in my burning, maniacal desire for Elinor and Darius to hook up. That and this little plot idea, which will be explained in detail below.**

**In **_**Inkdeath**_**, it seemed to me that Elinor and Darius were falling in love even more than in **_**Inkspell**_**. And the cues seemed pretty strong there. So I decided to write this piece. It goes through some of the larger Elinor and Darius parts in **_**Inkdeath**_**, with both of their POVs. What if the actions meant something more?**

**Please read and review! I seriously love reviews, and am more likely to keep writing if I receive them. So Elinor and Darius shippers, unite and press the lovely little blue button at the bottom of this piece!**

**INKACHE**

"_I'll make you some hot milk and honey," he said, disappearing into the kitchen. _

_And Elinor was alone again with the books, the moonlight, and Orpheus' ugly dog._

_-__Inkdeath, __page 5_

Darius' hands shook as he put the pot on the burning stove. It rattled against the burner, the sound loud in the quiet kitchen.

_Stupid_.

He was so, so stupid.

She'd been crying. She'd wanted comfort. She'd wanted him to give her the answers to her frantic questions. Perhaps she'd wanted him to hold her, to—no. _That_ was stupid.

But she'd been crying. And what had he said?

"_I'll make you some hot milk and honey."_

Stupid.

The blast of cold air from the refrigerator fogged up his glasses. He didn't bother to wipe them off, but instead groped blindly for the milk carton, praying that he wouldn't goof up and knock something over. His prayers were answered, and the milk emerged from the fridge unspilled, and nothing else clattered to the floor.

He poured the milk into the pot, and put it back in the fridge. While he waited for the milk to heat up, he sat heavily on the counter, jumping up slightly to reach the surface. He was just short enough that his feet dangled. He stared at his bare feet, berating himself for his stupidity and his cowardice.

_Why hadn't he just told her some lie? What hadn't he just said 'Don't worry. I'm sure they're all okay.'? _

He hadn't because he couldn't lie to her. Not that she wouldn't fall for it—Elinor was bright, but she didn't believe Darius capable of lying, which had gotten him out of a couple scrapes unscathed, where normally he would have been crushed to a pulp by her wrath. No, he couldn't lie to her because he loved her.

Elinor curled up in the armchair, wiping at her eyes. The tears—the blasted, accursed tears—kept falling, but she found that now it wasn't completely for her absent family members.

_Why had she asked so many unanswerable questions? Why hadn't she just asked him to hold her? To comfort her? Why had she chased him off with her selfish fears?_

As soon as Darius had slipped away, leaving the door slightly ajar, she had regretted her questions. She had wanted to call him back and ask him to hold her and comfort her. _That _was what she wanted.

_That's crazy, Elinor_, she told herself. _Crazy. He's what—20, 25?—years younger than you. For goodness' sakes, he's just old enough to be Meggie's father. You're the girl's great-aunt. Crazy_.

But it didn't stop her from wishing that he'd stayed and wrapped his arms around her. It didn't stop her from wishing that he'd even said her name once more.

But no. She'd chased him off with her angry words.

"_What is it?"_

Not, _'Oh, Darius, I feel so lonely. So scared for them.'_ (Goodness, she sounded like a heroine from a cheesy movie). No, she had snapped at him, insulted him, and wallowed in self-pity.

The dog whined, sensing her unhappiness.

"_Oh, Darius. I'm such a grumpy old woman. How do you put up with me?"_

She wanted more than anything in the world—more than getting to see her family—that it was because he loved her.


	2. Sick With Longing

**A/N-I still own nothing. **

_Without a word, he had just put down her tea—tea with honey and lemon, her favorite—beside the bed among the mountain of books piled up on her bedside table, and gone downstairs again looking so sad that Elinor had a shockingly guilty conscience._

_-__Inkdeath__, page 115_

Tears bit at the corners of his eyes. He wiped them away with his sleeve, laughing at himself.

_Crying. Very heroic. Just what she'd love to see the man who loves her doing._

That is, if she would even think about it.

_Why wouldn't she just go see a doctor? She was pining away, and it wasn't getting better. _

When she had first brought the books up to her room—or had him take the books up—he had prayed with every part of his heart and soul that things would look up. She wanted her books. Perhaps that meant that she was getting better.

But, no. She had used the books as a means of digging herself deeper and deeper, choosing the most heartbreaking tales, the saddest, most depressing stories, all in an attempt to make her situation seem all the more hopeless.

_Did she honestly want to die of longing?_

Darius was beginning to wonder.

He'd tried. He'd tried so hard to get her better. He'd offered to bring her new books. She had turned them down when she saw that they were comedies. She begged for Shakespeare, and he had brought her the volume, suggesting all the funny ones. She had flipped to a tragedy, and had cried for hours. Darius had snuck the volume out of her room as soon as she dozed, which was lucky, as that had been the last time she'd chosen to close her eyes.

The doctor. He'd pleaded with her, imploring her to go to the doctor. She had refused, and later had come downstairs, much to his pleasure.

That pleasure had evaporated when he realized that she had only come down to tell him that he was _"by no means allowed to call the doctor, or she'd kick him to the curb"_.

A tear splashed onto the glass case. He wiped it away.

Orpheus' handwriting lurked just behind the glass. Darius squinted, trying to read it, but he couldn't past the think glass cover.

He lifted the cover up, and took the paper out.

His eyes devoured the words—the first words he'd read in days, he'd been so busy—and he found his lips moving, forming them, though, thank goodness, no sound came forth, and thus, no damage was done.

Subconsciously, he rewrote the piece as he read, inserting the words that would take them there.

_Idiot! You'll hurt her! You'll bungle up the words, and she'll have a flat nose, or a limp, or no voice._

Elinor's horrified voice made him start, like a guilty child, or like Mortimer when he was caught sneaking chocolate out of the cupboard.

He quickly put the paper down, and soon he was stuttering, trying to explain himself, rambling off into a lecture on how interesting Orpheus' style of writing was.

Elinor muttered grumpily as she went to get some more books—Darius saw lots more Shakespeare (a couple of biographies on him too), _The Song of Roland_, and a few other depressing books. He wondered if, were he to dare to slip a book on depression in her stack, she would read that too.

Her threats and hopes brought a smile to his lips. That was Elinor.

The smile faded as she called herself _"a batty old woman"_. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, but no words came. Instead, he looked down at the paper again.

He was reading the paper. His lips moved as, entranced by the words, he read it eagerly, devouring every letter with that passion that made him so different from the shy man he was at all other times. When Darius read, he transformed into someone else entirely. When he read as he was reading now—fervently, his eyes running down the page, sometimes hopping up to reread a passage, his lips slightly apart in the pauses that he took from mouthing the words.

She could have stood there forever, watching him, but her venomous mouth ran ahead of her, and before she knew it, she had snapped at him, and he stood before her, the same, shy, gentle Darius she knew so well—she loved so well—stammering some nonsense about Orpheus.

_Do I scare him that much?_ She wondered. Apparently she did, as he was stuttering as badly as he had in Capricorn's village.

She marched to the shelf and yanked various books: Shakespeare. Both plays and a few biographies. The Bard was her greatest friend and ally in these depressing times. _The Song of Roland_. A few books that she didn't even bother to read the titles of, as she was too busy glancing at Darius out of the corners of her eyes.

A strange look was on his face. He was thinking, and, judging by the way he was looking at her, he was thinking about her.

And it made her happy, to know that he was thinking of her, even if it was probably a plot to yank her out of her state.

Knowing Darius, though, he might just be regretting having to put down that piece of paper.

And that made all her happiness disappear.


	3. Sharp Words

**A/N—I don't own the **_**Inkheart**_** series. All rights belong to Cornelia Funke and Chicken House publishers. All I own in my burning, maniacal desire for Elinor and Darius to hook up. That and this little plot idea, which will be explained in detail below.**

**In **_**Inkdeath**_**, it seemed to me that Elinor and Darius were falling in love even more than in **_**Inkspell**_**. And the cues seemed pretty strong there. So I decided to write this piece. It goes through some of the larger Elinor and Darius parts in **_**Inkdeath**_**, with both of their POVs. What if the actions meant something more?**

**Please read and review! I seriously love reviews, and am more likely to keep writing if I receive them. So Elinor and Darius shippers, unite and press the lovely little blue button at the bottom of this piece!**

_How she hated the words coming out of her mouth, and yet there was no keeping them back: bitter and venomous, spat out by her unhappy heart._

_-__Inkdeath__, page 197_

It wasn't the sound of her voice that made him jump. He had known she was there, lurking in the library, filling herself with sad words and melancholy ideas. No, it wasn't the sound of her voice. It was the _tone_. The moment he walked in, it hit him like the baseball bat his brother had once smacked him with, and like the burning slaps that, later, Basta had delivered with such pleasure.

"_Am I paying you to sit in my armchair reading? That's what you do when I'm not here, admit it!_"

The words washed over Darius, made all the more painful by the fact that the voice which uttered them was one he loved so much. He looked at the ground, refusing to meet her eyes, afraid to show the hurt he felt, and terrified to see in Elinor's eyes the hatred that her voice conveyed. He stammered out some phrase of contradiction, but he wasn't aware of what exactly he said. All he could hear was her sharp voice, full of pain and anger.

Elinor didn't even bother to look. She merely plowed on, in that manner of hers which Darius couldn't find repugnant; no matter how many times he told her she ought to be more considerate of the words of others. She persisted in the argument that Darius had misplaced the Dickens book.

Fighting back any retorts, and struggling to keep from begging her to be less harsh, Darius walked over to the shelf. He didn't have to search: he knew exactly where Dickens belonged, and he knew exactly where he had put the book. His fingers found it while his eyes were still directed at the wooden floor, and he pulled it out, feeling the hard binding beneath his fingertips. He placed the book in her hands, resisting the urge to linger there, standing by her. With a jerky movement, he yanked himself away and gathered up the books that, put down hurriedly and in some anger, had fallen, and began to put them away.

She wasn't finished.

"_It's dirty!_"

Darius bit his lip, but ignored her. He knew from experience that acknowledging the speaker would only incense them more. Bitter memories of his father's last years made his eyes water.

Still she pressed on, word after word attacking him like the fangs of an enraged snake. Never had he been so happy to slip the last book into its allotted place. He made sure, though, not to hurry as he left.

* * *

><p>Elinor felt her knees go weak. What had she done?<p>

She tried to remember everything that she had said, but, like one possessed, her memory failed her, and she was left with no recollection of the events, only the consequences.

The book Darius had given her was firm and unyielding in her hand: like the man who had placed it in her hands, it was something solid and unchangeable. She had never realized before just how reliable Darius was. And she wanted so badly at that moment to hurl the book at the wall, and leave it there. It wasn't the book that needed care: it was the librarian that she had so cruelly abused.

Up the stairs; past the rooms—Mortimer and Resa's, hers, Meggie's (_stupid, stupid girl_), Mortimer's office, and finally, Darius'—where the door hung wide open, as it always had.

But the inside was different. Darius was neat, always clean, much like Elinor, though Darius was much better at living and cleaning, whereas Elinor tended to merely clean. A suitcase was on the bed, open and half-filled with articles of clothing and small personal possessions. It reminded her of the day he had moved in, when she had come upstairs, leaving Meggie with her parents, and talked to the shy, quiet man who had suffered so much. Darius had told her things then that had mad e her insides twist: tales of crypts and sleepless nights, hunger filled days, and repeated blows. And she had gotten the impression that the horrific things he had spoken of were but a little of what Capricorn's men had put him though. Not to mention the life he had lived before.

He was talking to her, asking her something, and she answered automatically. She wasn't really listening. All she saw was the photograph that he picked up—the one of his parents. Elinor had looked many times at that picture, trying to find out something about Darius' family. But all the picture had revealed was that Darius (who was not in the photograph) looked almost exactly like his mother, save for his eyes, which, complete with glasses, made him look at least somewhat like his father. That was all that the picture ever told her, and Darius had never told her more.

And then she was telling him to unpack. She was almost begging him. She could hear the anguish, the desolation, in her voice as she cried,

"_You can't go as well and leave me all alone!_"

Darius twitched, as if he wanted to spin around, to whirl about to face her, but he didn't. When he spoke, Elinor heard tears lurking just behind the quiet tones of his voice—oh! How she loved his voice. Soft and gentle, it held—had always held—more wonder for her than the melodious voices of Mortimer and Orpheus.

And she realized at that moment that no matter what she had gone through, it was Darius who had truly suffered by Meggie's actions. While _she_, Elinor, had merely plunged herself into melancholy, Darius had been burdened with the life that Elinor had chosen not to live any longer. How many bills had he paid? How many times had he reached for the phone to call the doctor, to beg for help? How many times had he cried himself to sleep at the kitchen table? (She knew he had at least once—she had, one night, when looking for a book, seen him asleep at the table, his grey eyes red and tear stains tracing pencil lines down his pale face.)

Before she had time to stop herself, her anguished heart spat out one more phrase of despair, and before she knew it, she had spewed out the idea of suicide.

Darius' eyes widened, and for a moment (her heart leapt), something like pain flickered there. But then he turned away, leaving her standing in the doorways, he knees weak, her heart breaking, wanting more than anything to cry out, _I didn't mean it! I love you too much to leave!_

Silence.

Silence.

Silence.

"_I'll try it_."


	4. At Last

**A/N—Disclaimer: I don't own the **_**Inkheart **_**series. That belongs to Cornelia Funke. **

** Notes: Okay, apology time. I'm really sorry I haven't updated this. My **_**Inkheart **_**fanaticism waned for a little bit, and just came back recently. I still ship Elinor/Darius though…so, here's an update! Thanks to everyone for their kind reviews. This chapter is for all of you! **

** A second note, on the format of this story: You all may have noticed that each chapter is named after a corresponding chapter in the book. The events that each chapter of this fanfiction covers can be found in that chapter in **_**Inkdeath**_**. But, as we get further in, in the near future you're going to be seeing chapters entitled "Author Addition #1" and so forth. These chapters are fillers—events that I have made up for the sake of filling out the story and developing the romance that I think Cornelia Funke should have included in her story. Just a heads up for everyone, so that no one's confused when these start entering the story. **

**And one last note: I am absolutely, 100% terrible at writing romance. So please, please, please bear with me. I know it's bad romance writing, but this isn't my strong point, and this is going to be a very innocent romance. No yucky scenes...**

**Please read/review!**

* * *

><p>"<em>Darius! You did it!" she whispered, hugging him so hard that his glasses slipped. <em>

"_Thank you! Thank you so, so much!"_

_Inkdeath__, pg. 278_

* * *

><p>He hadn't read aloud since leaving Capricorn's village. He hadn't read aloud for pleasure since the night before the day that Signora Agosti's letter arrived, eight years ago, with the news that broke his heart and his spirit.<p>

Reading aloud this time was a roller coaster. In the last few minutes in which Elinor dashed about making sure she had everything she wanted and telling him that he was amazing and wonderful and most certainly the best thing that had ever happened to her, he managed to fit in small panic attack in the bathroom down the hall. Five minutes later he started reading and…and it was beautiful.

_Inkheart _was beautiful world, despite all the pain and horror it had brought upon their lives. The words that Orpheus had used to read himself into the story were lovely as well, and they rolled across the tongue like waves of pleasure. He felt drunk—his ears were ringing so much that he couldn't hear his own voice; his fingers were tingling, and he crumpled the paper in his hands and tried to give himself a paper cut so that he could feel _anything_; his insides were heaving.

Darius didn't have a word to describe how they left their world behind and entered Fenoglio's. It was a very sudden switch, like one of those old-fashioned medieval secret doors, where the fireplace or the bookshelf would spin around and take you into a different room. The couch beneath him was suddenly cold, hard ground, as if it had been zapped with magic. The candle that Elinor had forgotten to extinguish ceased to smell like eucalyptus and suddenly morphed into the scent of manure. Suddenly, _suddenly_, they were there.

He bumped into something as he pushed himself up on his hands, and found that he was beneath a cart. A manure cart, most likely, since the whole place reeked of dung. But it was quiet and secluded, and it gave him to opportunity to do what he'd been wishing he'd done when he had his panic attack in the bathroom—throw up. Beyond the cart, he could hear Elinor laughing like a giddy child, and he tried to time his vomiting with her louder outbursts so that she didn't hear him. It worked, though it was time consuming, and when he crawled out, as controlled as he could make himself, she was still happy.

She was deliriously happy.

_"Darius! You did it! Thank you! Thank you so, so much!" _

His glasses went askew on his face, and everything except the red fabric of Elinor's dress went blurry and out of focus.

He wished that she'd been a little less happy, so that he could have told himself that she hugged him because she loved him.

* * *

><p><em>"Hey, you there, where'd that dog come from?"<em>

The moment was ruined. Which, in a split second retrospect, was probably for the best, as she'd acted far too much like a love-struck little girl. _You're a little old for hugs, don't you think, Elinor? _The situation, in their world, would have been terribly awkward—her standing there looking confused, while Darius pushed his glasses back into position.

Everything from that moment on happened too fast. The men were menacing—almost as frightening as the black jackets had been—and Cerberus' constant growling throughout the ordeal set her even more on edge. Things were blurry, rather like she'd always imagined it must for Darius when he didn't have his glasses (she'd always meant to ask what that was like), and Darius' voice was a throbbing pulse in her ears that she couldn't understand, and the men were too loud and too coarse, and Cerberus wouldn't stop growling until suddenly Darius had her hand in his and was yanking her down the street with a terrified "_Quick, Elinor!_" that seemed to echo down the alleyway.

That night was beautiful for several reasons: first, because she was in the Inkworld. She was there.

And secondly, because, just for an instant, Darius had returned her hug, and she liked to believe that maybe he'd understood the emotion she'd accidentally conveyed.


End file.
